


This Fire

by rispacooper



Series: The Slutty Boys 'Verse [2]
Category: Psych
Genre: Angry Sex, Dry Humping, First Time, Jealousy, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:59:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlton isn't really capable of being reasonable about the thought of Spencer and Hornstock. Too bad he doesn't think about why until after he shows up at Hornstock's office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Fire

The appointment had been made for one o’clock. Carlton strides down the hallway and past the front desk at exactly 12:45, flashing his badge at the startled receptionist with the mouthful of yogurt as he does.

It looks like about five of the doors have the name “Hornstock” on them in discreet brass lettering, and that stops him for all of a second or two until he notices that the brass on one door is a little shinier, a little newer, than the rest.

He’s got his hand on the doorknob without knocking first, giving it a vicious, silent twist and stepping just as silently onto the plush, gray carpet. Everything from the floors to the polished, gleaming mahogany in front of his face screams money, power, and tradition, yet once he’s actually inside the office the first thing he sees is Defense Attorney Hornstock sitting at his desk, eating a sandwich over a brown paper bag and bobbing his head to whatever music is coming from the little plastic speakers stuck in his ears.

There’s something in front of him that he’s reading, and it should be Law Review or something useful, but Carlton is nearly willing to bet that it’s some kind of comic book, because they—he—can never take anything seriously. He bares his teeth and closes the door hard behind him, making a point of looking around the room while Hornstock straightens up and drops his sandwich.

There’s a few shelves with the usual glossy book collection set up to look impressive, a few other shelves filled with books that actually looked like they’ve been read, a couple planters, no pictures, and some kind of…doll…on one shelf. It’s on a stand, and it’s only that that makes Carlton realize it’s an action figure of some kind.

He rolls his eyes at the green plastic body armor and turns back to face Hornstock, setting his shoulders and standing at rest with his hands at his sides. He doesn’t say hello. His jaw is locked too tightly to speak.

“Officer…uh…Detective Lassiter.” The kid stands up, flinches a little, then pulls the speakers from his ears and sets them on the desk. They’re still playing, loud enough for Carlton to hear something involving lots of bouncing guitars and guys screaming. “You’re early,” Hornstock adds, and it had almost been a miracle that he’d won the case with a face that wide-open. Except it hadn’t been a miracle at all, or any kind of spiritual or magical force, and if someone had asked Carlton three days ago he would have said he was fine with that. Sandra Panitch been innocent, they’d all suspected it, so it was for the best that she’d gone free.

Thinking of that allows him to relax, just a fraction, enough to crack his mouth open at least.

“I had time,” Carlton explains, giving a shrug that most people would take as an apology. “Oh, did I interrupt your lunch?” He’d widen his eyes but it’s really not worth the effort; his voice has gone low and insinuating on its own and there are very few people who wouldn’t know to steer clear of him now, or who would know it and provoke him regardless. Just one, in fact, and Carlton’s fake little smile tightens.

He shifts his stance but keeps his back to the door, between him and the little piss ant sitting at the desk.

It had been impulse, calling this morning for an appointment, coming here at all. He shouldn’t even be here. It was none of his business. It was none of his business what—or who—Spencer did. Or how he did it, even if he was so drunk he could hardly stand. Carlton knows all of that, has thought about all of that all night, each night since last Friday. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s here now, his chest so constricted he has to fight to breathe.

Hornstock stares at him, all pale blue eyes and brown hair that won’t stay in place despite whatever he used to slick it back. It’s sleek and dull brown and doesn’t seem at all serious enough for a man following in his family’s footsteps, even if it doesn’t stick out in all directions.

“Yes.” Hornstock’s voice is verging on testy, his hands moving just for a second to wave over the half-eaten sandwich. There’s something shiny on his mouth, mayo or oil from the food, but his cheeks and jaw are stubble-free and smooth and probably soft to the touch. All of them, smooth and soft and not giving a crap about what they did, who they screwed, who they screwed over.

The damn music is still playing, the volume at levels that would have been deafening if they’d still been in Hornstock’s ears, loud enough to cause permanent damage, to drown out bad memories and good judgment if there wasn’t enough booze to do it. Carlton clenches his jaw again and Hornstock swallows.

“But if this is better for you I can fit you in…” he gives in politely, or from habit, or just catching onto Carlton’s mood, and clears his throat, dropping his head while he makes a forlorn effort to put his lunch away. When he glances back up he’s manfully buried his disappointment. “You said you had a few questions…about the trial…?”

There’s a can of soda at the edge of the desk that Hornstock almost knocks over, twice, while trying to gesture Carlton into the room and Carlton makes another show of looking around to hide the twist to his mouth.

He unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat opposite Hornstock on the other side of the desk, resting one leg across his knee and pretending not to notice when Hornstock closes what he’d been reading and sets it aside. It’s a magazine, not a comic book, but there’s some sort of cartoon military figure on the front of it, in green armor.

It’s frightening to think about how much had been entrusted to the barely tested boy in front of him. The fate of an innocent woman had rested in the neat, manicured hands after all. Her life, and the reputation of the Criminal Justice system, and probably the legacy of this place around them, in the hands of someone whose hands had probably last held a video game controller.

The soda can almost falls, again, and Carlton reaches out, moving it further onto the desk, ready and willing to believe that someone usually cleaned up the kid’s messes for him, even if he hadn’t already seen the evidence of that with his own eyes.

There’s acid eating at the back of his throat but he swallows it.

Carlton had attended the trial; Hornstock had been losing from day one, losing right up until Spencer had rushed over and made him change his tie. It wasn’t surprising that Hornstock had—everyone ended up doing what Spencer wanted, sooner or later. What had been a surprise was that Spencer had bothered at all. That Spencer should care when Spencer obviously didn’t truly care about anything, even himself.

“Don’t mind me.” Carlton snaps himself from those thoughts with the ease of someone who has done it regularly for the past three days, and waves at the sandwich.

Hornstock actually lowers his head to give the sandwich of look of longing but sits down without touching it.

“So…” he tries, leaning back in the big leather chair that tops him by an inch or two. His hands come together in the briefest possible attempt at pushing his fingers together like some kind of movie villain and then he sits up. His feet hit the desk with a muffled bump, making Carlton wonder if he’s got sneakers on with his pricey suit. His sneer slips out and he debates leaving it there. This…kid…had apparently been worth Spencer’s dignity and self-respect. He doesn’t know why the thought burns, but it does, a fire raging just under the surface. “What can I do for you, Detective Lassiter?”

“Good job on that, by the way.” Carlton jerks his head up to punctuate the statement and a smile lifts part of Hornstock’s mouth. Something that should not be a faint blush colors his cheeks and then he coughs and meets Carlton’s eyes without the smallest hint of shame.

“I’m just glad my client was cleared. But thanks. I had help…” He pushes his hand out, palm up, since they both knew what he was talking about. “I don’t know what I would have done without them.”

Probably lost the trial. Carlton bites back the words and makes himself keep on staring into wide, almost innocent, pale eyes. That innocence was a lie just like everything else.

“You mean Spencer?” Carlton straightens as he says the name, letting a smile come and go on his face at Hornstock’s momentary stillness. He breaks it a second later, pushing a stray, flat lock of his hair out of his face and turning to take a loud, slurping sip of his drink.

“He and Gus are incredible,” Hornstock responds after swallowing. His voice is calm enough as he reaches up to pat at his tie.

After what he’d witnessed, Carlton’s almost unsure how to take that. The images, the memories, are scorched into his brain as clearly as if he’d taken pictures. His chest is warm to the touch, his cheeks stinging, and he looks away to the little mp3 player on the desk. The music is too loud.

He switches his attention back to Hornstock. “Did they charge you at their usual rate?”

“No.” He replies instantly, looking worried. “It was pro bono. What’s their usual…?”

“Spencer did something for free?” Carlton snorts and rests a hand on his leg. His fingers curl into his ankle and his tone remains what it was before, low and insinuating. It’s the closest to civil he can manage. “You must be a friend of his.”

“He was convinced of her innocence…” Hornstock’s back is a straight line, and he’s staring hard across the desk. Carlton’s eyebrow twitches as he holds his gaze.

“Baloney.”

“Excuse me?” Hornstock actually sputters a little and Carlton inclines his head toward what’s left of the sandwich. Hornstock tears his eyes away and blinks as though just remembering that Carlton interrupted his lunch. He inhales sharply and shakes his head. Then his chin comes up.

“Eggplant,” Hornstock corrects him, flustered and annoyed and not really trying to hide it. Carlton actually forgets himself enough to wrinkle his nose at the thought of a cold eggplant sandwich.

“Eggplant? Seriously?”

“Sorry, but was this your question about the trial, what I eat for lunch?” Hornstock practically hops in his chair and uses one hand to push his sandwich aside. Then his hands are on the desk and he’s leaning forward.

“Well, hey, here’s a question,” Carlton slides his foot to the floor and leans in to match the other man. “How did you get your hands on that memo I sent to the DA?”

“I didn’t.” Hornstock shakes head as though one negative wasn’t enough. “Sh…Shawn told me to ask about it.” The slight, breathless stutter before Hornstock says the name makes Carlton grind his teeth together. There’s still no shame on his wide-open face.

“How did you know what it said?” He can feel his fingers curling into fists but can’t move his head to look. Hornstock blinks once or twice and deepens his frown.

“We didn’t know the contents.” He pushes out a breath and narrows his eyes. His expression turns inward for the smallest moment. “I figured it was a shot in the dark, since psychics can’t know everything.” The kid accepts the existence of psychic powers without even a little pause for embarrassment. As though they were real and still something to be believed in, like Santa Clause and the rehabilitation of repeat offenders. Only then he abruptly breaks and looks down. “I mean, I thought they did, but I guess not.”

The skin around his neck flushes with color and it’s so obvious what he’s thinking about now that Carlton shoves himself to his feet. Once he’s there he’s got nowhere to go but out but he’s not going anywhere. Not yet.

The kid jumps to his feet too.

“Are you interrogating me, Detective Lassiter?” he demands with his head up, Carlton feels a burn across his cheeks at being called out. Called out by this…damn lawyer. He gestures down at the desk, at the stupid mp3 player that was still blasting out compressed noise, looking down to see a few law books with dog-eared pages amid the gaming magazines and cold eggplant.

“I’ll ask the questions here.” He sucks in a breath and angles his head up. His face is everything it’s supposed to be, serious, fierce, and controlled. His heart is hammering against his ribs, his stomach churning up acid that makes his mouth twist. “You trusted Spencer _that_ much so quickly and you’re trying to tell me you two had never met before. That you weren’t even friends, and certainly weren’t...”

His teeth hit his tongue he cuts himself off so fast. His chest burns, for a moment it smells like bleach and sex, and then just vodka, sharp beneath his nose, on Spencer’s breath.

He’d barely been able to stand on his own. A blind man could have seen his hands grabbing onto the door, onto Carlton, holding tight just to stay on his feet. His body had been weak and too hot, and the stink on him too obvious to ignore. As obvious as his dirty clothes, the bruised shadows around his mouth when he had offered Carlton a smile. Clearly he hadn’t cared about being so shit-faced and vulnerable, so why should anyone else?

Hornstock’s startled, anxious expression shifts inexplicably into something else. For a moment his gaze focuses, his eyes lighting in a way that’s sickeningly familiar. It means trouble, but he stands his ground when Hornstock moves, stepping out from the desk.

“He’d been right so far, and you vouched for him before the court, didn’t you, Detective?” The distance is too short for him to admire the sudden change in Hornstock’s posture, the confidence that has him gesturing to imaginary jurors. The big, unnecessary hand gestures only make the fire burn that much hotter.

Carlton nods then shakes his head.

“I’m not the one on trial here, Hornstock,” he points out, raising his voice and poking a finger right into the middle of his shiny, expensive little tie. Hornstock blinks once or twice and Carlton sneers into the light, pretty eyes that clearly never see what they should. He turns, studying the tracks he made in the carpet leading to the door, sliding over the shelves filled with books and toys and then he’s turning back, his voice rough and loud. “A life was in your hands and you gambled everything on some crackpot, fly-by-night psychic that you barely knew…”

“Why are you really here, Detective?” The abrupt question is enough to make Carlton snap his mouth shut. For a heartbeat or two he’s breathing hard through his nose, then he tosses his head and looks up from the shining, smirking lips. He always seems to know everything. “You didn’t come here to ask about the case.”

“I’m not going to dignify that.” The door is too many feet behind him, not that he’s about to back out of here like some scared rabbit. He hasn’t done anything wrong, other than deliberately arriving early for an appointment.

“You don’t need to.” The words leave Hornstock’s mouth low and insinuating, but the pleased smile that follows them is more surprised, as if the kid can’t believe what he’s saying. He stole that smile, and someone ought to knock the smug right off his face.

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you,” Carlton bends his head and the whispered threat lands somewhere around Hornstock’s ear. The kid shivers and it’s Carlton’s turn to smile; it was nice to see that fear where it belonged, where it should have been instead of flitting across Spencer’s face when he had looked up and seen Carlton in the mirror.

“You won that case mostly due to Spencer.” He wants to hear Hornstock say it, not just acknowledge that he had help. “You took advantage of him.” Carlton wants to hear the words, hear them sworn on a Bible if that’s what it takes, and he’s shaking with the urge to move, to shove it down the kid’s throat. But large, wary eyes are sweeping over his face, seeing the circles under his eyes, the nicks from shaving that had made Carlton duck out of the station before Spencer could show up.

“What’s this about?” Hornstock asks the question they both know the answer to but it’s Carlton who flinches from it. Hornstock exhales and backs away a step.

“I’ve…uh…I’ve got a lot of work to do.” Hornstock’s back to being polite, waving at his magazine and sandwich without any obvious irony. His smooth face is flushed pink, his hair sliding back into the flat arranged mess it had been before, and then his other hand comes up to straighten the colorful line of his tie.

The damn tie. It should have told him what Spencer had wanted all along.

He shouldn’t even be here, sleepless nights were no excuse. But Hornstock goes on making them anyway, and Carlton sees his hand reaching out and grabbing onto one sleeve of a probably-five-hundred dollar suit.

Spencer’s blue jeans were still what had gotten dirty.

“We’re not done.”

“He chose me,” Hornstock offers without pausing, backing up into his own desk. “He pulled me into the bathroom. He said he…” The wash of sickness is so strong this time that Carlton feels it tear through his throat. He shakes his head and Hornstock closes his mouth.

“I don’t want to picture Spencer on his knees…” Carlton warns him, once, hardly aware that he’s moved until the entire length of his body is warm, burning as it hadn’t since last Friday night, when he had let a drunken Shawn Spencer lean into him.

Hornstock’s gaze flies to his face and stays there, calling him on his lie without saying a word the way Spencer would have. He swallows, and Carlton watches his throat move.

“I don’t…I didn’t know you two…”

“Spencer and I aren’t anything.” Not now. Not ever. “He’s a liar and a fraud.” Who takes cases for free to see justice done. “We never will be.” The innocence in those eyes was a lie, fake like everything else, like the hand twisting itself around his neck tie, pulling him closer.

“See you on Monday, Lassi,” Spencer had murmured, all wet mouth and warm cheeks, his other hand heavy over Carlton’s racing heart. He’d offered it in a song, some kind of promise in his heavy-lidded eyes, and the damn music had been too loud, echoing in Carlton’s ears and chest, making him imagine things that weren’t there.

All that had been there was Spencer’s smirking, shining, bruised lips, his mussed hair, his eyes bright and dark in the flickering, buzzing bathroom light, offering, lying, had to be lying, because Spencer was a liar, and he had laughed. Made a joke. A joke, when nothing about it had been funny.

“Was it nothing to you?” He can’t help the question, the whining need in his voice that had shamed him into useless marital counseling sessions, couples cooking courses, regular date nights that had never gone anywhere.

But his hands stay fast on Hornstock’s arms, and Hornstock’s looking up, his mouth open.

“To me, or to him?” Hornstock wonders, embarrassed and challenging, and easy. So easy. Carlton looks him up and down, at the young, smooth face, and the lean body straining toward him, the traditional suit and the tie to match the name on the door, the defiant music behind him, the careless hair. What Spencer had seen in him.

Hornstock’s breath is coming hard and Carlton’s fingers tighten on his arms. He doesn’t move away. Neither of them moves away.

“This…is my office…” Hornstock manages, and Carlton gives him another sneer without even pausing.

“Then lock the door.”

What he says makes Hornstock blink, almost hiding the strange, brief flare in Hornstock’s eyes, as though he’s heard words like that before. Then his hands are moving, flying up to slide through Carlton’s hair, yanking his head down. His makes a sound against Carlton’s mouth, hungry, teeth nibbling at his lips.

He tastes like peppers and olive oil, spicy not sweet, and he’s demanding. Carlton’s hands slide to the desk to hold himself up, maybe the both of them when the other man pushes forward. Carlton grunts at the weight, arms wrapped around his shoulders but he keeps them both on their feet, pushing back.

“Got you. Got you,” he promises into the mouth below his, shutting his eyes at the panting breath next to his ear. The need drags along his skin, rasping like the tug of his shirt, his tie, as fingers find it again, twist it to keep him close.

He’s not going anywhere, just in, closer, pressing until the desk is firm behind them and he’s pushing Hornstock’s knees apart, pushing himself between them. Hornstock. There’s rough friction, their suits rubbing together, the quiet music that scratches at his nerves without taking over his heart and Carlton opens his eyes.

His mouth is buried in soft, flat waves of hair and he slides it down, holding for a moment over the smooth feel of the other man’s jaw.

Hornstock, he realizes again, something inside twisting so hard it bleeds.

Hornstock’s hand is still on his chest, not near his gun, but resting over his shirt buttons, the length of Carlton’s tie wrapped tight around his wrist. Carlton brings his hand up from the desk and grabs a handful of the sleek material of Hornstock’s shirt. Then he looks down into pretty, disbelieving eyes. He bares his teeth in a smile as he shifts his body.

He’s hard and standing between Hornstock’s legs, where he can feel how hard Hornstock is too, how he’s squirming and anxious for Carlton to move again. It’s so easy that Carlton closes his eyes again and rocks forward, using his hand to pull the shirt from Hornstock’s pants, spreading his hand out over his warm, bare chest while he slides against his cock.

The man is whimpering, whining for more and it drowns out the sound of his crappy music, drowns out memories and bad ideas, even the promise in Spencer’s voice that Carlton had broken for him by coming here today.

“Yeah,” he breathes while Hornstock silently begs for it and slides a hand down the side of the man’s body, past his hips to the inside of his thigh.

He’s got muscle, surprisingly, and Carlton backs off enough to run a touch along one shivering leg, close to where the kid wants it, and Hornstock bites his lip, his eyes widening when Carlton meets his gaze. He looks like he’d flinch, but then he’s moaning, grunting when Carlton rocks forward against his own hand.

Just that, and a couple of thin layers between them. Hornstock is all pink, his mouth opened and not bruised enough.

“Detective,” he tries, the name all wrong, and Carlton slides his hands to the other man’s hips, sliding him forward to the edge of the desk. The can falls over, splashing green soda on the magazine, but Hornstock’s mouth is soft under his, as open as his legs. There’s no fight, only give, trust and want and Carlton yanks his mouth away.

He can’t breathe; Hornstock is pale colors when he should be bold. But Spencer had wanted him, wanted _him_ , and Carlton’s hands are already squeezing his hips. He looks away, can’t find anything to stare at but a stupid action figure. He turns back and presses his fingers into the shiny suit until he can feel Hornstock’s hip bones.

“Turn over.” His voice is low, desperate because he hasn’t opened his mouth, but with a blink Hornstock is moving, sliding his ass against Carlton’s crotch, and the suit doesn’t matter.

Carlton moves his hands, following the length of Hornstock’s arms until he pins his hands to the desk, holds his palms flat on his law books, and speaks, his teeth against his ear.

“To him,” he answers, squeezing his eyes shut when Hornstock just shakes his head. They’re still fully dressed, but he groans when his cock slides against the firm muscle of Hornstock’s ass. Beneath him, Hornstock lets out a quiet noise of his own, disbelieving, and he shifts, trying to rub himself off on the desk.

Carlton shoves forward and Hornstock’s aroused shudder is as sweet as his wide-open face.

“Do you know how easy you are?” Carlton murmurs into the back of his neck and thrusts against him. He would have been no match for Spencer. Spencer could have made him beg just as easily, soft lips and rough cheeks rubbing playfully across sensitive skin. Had he? It takes only a second for the image to return, some kind of sweet, burning nightmare, Spencer laughing and sure, even down on the floor, hands curling into his ridiculous hair to pull him forward. “Do you?” He asks with another thrust and takes one hand away.

No match for him, and Spencer had done it anyway. Drunk and stupid and bragging with every swish of his wrist, every slow glance in Carlton’s direction, letting him know, mocking him, teasing him.

Carlton reaches down and yanks at his fly, sighing as he frees himself. His skin feels almost raw, Hornstock’s suit pants slick and cool. Hornstock’s dick is still trapped in his suit, pounding against the desk, but Carlton closes his eyes, leaving his hand on Hornstock’s hip.

There’s a wriggle of protest, and Carlton pushes forward again, panting into the kid’s ear, listening to the hot little gasps that Hornstock makes each time Carlton slides between his thighs, against his ass.

“Please, yes,” he chokes out, face down on the his desk, and Carlton feels himself flushing hot, hearing those words ringing off bathroom tile, seeing Spencer trying to smirk around the dick in his mouth. The kid shaking and weak above him, and Spencer on his knees, working his cock with that smartass mouth, up and down, noisy slurps and quick licks with his tongue. With _him_ , with this kid who’d left him the second he could get away.

Carlton pushes down hard and thrusts again, closing his eyes at Hornstock’s needy mouthfuls of air and sweet little shudders, opening his eyes when all he sees is Spencer’s mouth. He _burns_ to see it, rages, the roar of an explosion in his ears, and he jerks forward as he comes, falling heavily, shooting into the slick fabric of an expensive suit.

His music makes more noise than Hornstock does, but he wouldn’t have been quiet then, with Spencer’s mouth on his cock, locked in that filthy bathroom, saying his name over and over, _Shawn_.

“Tell me,” Carlton needs to hear it anyway, panting, then pushing his fingers close to Hornstock’s erection.

Hornstock arches against him, rubbing himself on whatever he can reach.

“It didn’t,” he whispers into the wood, startling Carlton into stillness. “I didn’t.” For a moment even Hornstock stops moving, turning his head away as the words echo around them.

Carlton’s vision is smoky and clouded, his body one fire, and he frowns as he stares down at the mess of dull brown hair and listens to the sound of Hornstock struggling to catch his breath.

Then he moves, suddenly, before he can clear his mind of its one clear, sickening thought.

He pulls Hornstock back around, pulls him up while his mouth is still open and gaping and mashes their lips together, working his hand down to the hot, sticky pool of heat between his legs and stroking fast and hard. He closes his eyes, but the spice of pepper and the metallic taste of eggplant stay on his tongue, and Hornstock is nearly silent. His hands grip Carlton’s shirt, clenching and unclenching, and then he pulls back to gasp. He jerks as he comes, but Carlton keeps his hand where it is until he’s finished.

He pulls his hand free slowly and gets a good hold on the kid’s hips until he’s sure that he’s standing on his own. They’re both breathing hard and red. Carlton glances at the other man once then turns away, pulling out his handkerchief.

There’s a layer of sweat under his clothes, sticky and gross, like the other messes on his hand, around his underwear. Carlton wipes at his neck blindly before using the cloth to clean his hand and the spattered come on the front of his suit. He still feels disgusting. He still looks like he’s been illicitly fucking another man, but he doesn’t try to hide anything behind a smirk, or a sneer.

His mind is clear for the first time in days and having too much to drink or closing his eyes isn’t going to do a damn thing to help him now.

The skin of his chest is still warm, his face stinging, but he raises his head.

Hornstock’s suit is a disaster. Carlton had made sure it would be.

He only has the one handkerchief, which he tucks into his pocket after zipping himself back up. Hornstock still hasn’t moved, though Carlton can feel the wide eyes on him.

He reaches out and grabs the napkins stuck under the sandwich, about the only things not soaked by the spilled soda, and then hesitates. They look cheap and rough and when he dabs at the mess on the front of Hornstock’s suit pants they leave bits of paper behind.

Hornstock jerks anyway, so Carlton stops and clears his throat.

Looking up makes him flinch. “Here,” he shoves the napkins at Hornstock while his eyes catalogue his mussed hair and wet clothes, the bruised pink of his mouth, as though he’d bitten it or Carlton had kissed him too forcefully.

He flinches again.

There are words he should be saying, uncomfortable, horrifying words he has to say if he can think of them. Admissions, apologies, explanations, if he had any.

“Well,” Hornstock begins out of nowhere, tucking his tie into place as though his shirt and pants aren’t stained with sweat and semen. Carlton’s. His own. No one else’s. “Can I ask you a favor, Detective?”

Carlton will buy him a new suit, even if it means ramen noodles and peanut butter for the next two months. It’s the least he can do, after… He can’t even think of it. It’s a disgrace.

But he nods, and Hornstock nods, his expression a little dazed. He licks his lower lip and Carlton tries not to see it. There isn’t enough scotch in the world and his jaw clenches, one more thing to nail Spencer for.

“Whatever is going on between you and Shawn Spencer…” Hearing out loud the name that’s repeating through his mind makes Carlton’s jerk his head up, straighten his shoulders in readiness. It’s pointless to deny it all now, but he opens his mouth anyway only to close it when Hornstock’s pale blue, sharp eyes narrow.

Carlton licks the sour taste of olive oil from his lips, swallows the acid in the back of his throat. But he doesn’t argue.

“From now on…Try to keep me out of it.” Hornstock rubs at his mouth, and turns to stare at the disaster that Carlton made of his desk, not once looking in Carlton’s direction as he backs slowly toward the door.


End file.
